


Wicked Little High

by anonlytree



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Future AU, M/M, Smut, sort of a sequel but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-02-06 19:17:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1869330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonlytree/pseuds/anonlytree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Perks of Being a Liverpool Manager <br/>Chapter 14</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anaile20GH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaile20GH/gifts).



> 1\. Feliz Cumpleaños, Anaile20GH. I don't know what it is about your birthday, honestly...  
> 2\. This is set in the same future universe as [Now That I Am in Madrid and Can Think](http://archiveofourown.org/works/629553/chapters/1138279), but it's not a sequel per se. If you don't want to read through 22 chapters of (still) unedited grammar snafus and glacial plot, don't bother. This one has no plot to speak of. All you need to know is that Stevie is Liverpool manager and Xabi is Liverpool's Director of Football (yeah, good luck finding out what that means...)  
> 3\. He decided to [act out my headcanon](https://31.media.tumblr.com/abff4b46773053af606ab8beb681f3fe/tumblr_n6cc4aYCQr1qlqrajo1_250.gif) from Now That I Am in Madrid... [I just had to.](https://31.media.tumblr.com/d7feaac4bd1ac7b89e3373e6b8cc2831/tumblr_n63bxzcagT1qiy96so1_500.png)

Stevie picks at his bow tie for the twenty-seventh time since he's walked into the cavernous reception hall where upwards of 3000 of football's best are currently getting shitfaced on champagne and oyster cocktails on FIFA's tab. Now that the swell of well-wishers, reporters and people he can't stand but got to watch fakesmile at him through their congratulations has ebbed towards the free booze fountains, he can kick back and enjoy his glass of Jack and the view from his bar stool.

"...I suppose we could always try a bit harder to enforce those standards of integrity in the beautiful game while keeping an eye on the bottom line," Xabi says, sipping non-alcoholic champagne six feet away from Stevie, surrounded by half of FIFA's Board of Directors. “Surely having racist thugs kept out of stadiums is more important than selling tickets…”

Stevie can't hear their replies he's just content to watch them squirm and looks over his shoulder, scanning the perimeter to make sure Michel Platini's nowhere in sight. He'd avoided disaster earlier by distracting Xabi with a Virgin Mary while the UEFA President was entertaining guests close to Liverpool's table. There's only so much expensive fake booze he can pour down Xabi's throat without potentially disastrous consequences, but the man does hold a mean grudge.

He also wears the hell out of a tuxedo and makes most mortals look like they're being worn by theirs instead, Stevie notes with a certain amount of analytical detachment. He can afford to be clinical about it now since, in a couple of hours, he plans to open every one of those mother of pearl studs on Xabi’s shirt with his teeth. Xabi looks up from his glass and catches Stevie midway through licking his lips so Stevie sinks his teeth into his lower lip and refuses to blink first. It’s only three seconds, but it’s the three seconds in which Xabi blacks out of his conversation, the air dense with silence where it had sparkled with the clink of glasses and the hums and _ooohs_ of a coterie of bureaucrats surrounding Liverpool’s Director of Football.

“Is it true that you monitor the twitter accounts of all Liverpool players 24/7?” an awed voice comes to Xabi’s rescue.

“Only for the naughty ones. But please keep it between us… I have a reputation to maintain.” Xabi takes advantage of the laughtrack break to glance back towards the bar just as FIFA’s brand new World Coach of the Year is getting another drink and snapping his bowtie open, letting the strip of black silk hang loose next to his open shirt collar.

“Rumors that I held Valencia’s President hanging by his ankles over a balcony during the Tendillo transfer negotiations are also greatly exaggerated,” Xabi adds with a coy smile into his tulip-shaped glass.

 _Poor bastard would have preferred that_ , Stevie muses, thinking back on what Xabi leisurely calls “negotiations” as a period the rest of the footballing world remembers as that time last transfer season when Xabi had inflicted intense psychological warfare on the entire city of Valencia until Liverpool got the Right Back it wanted for the price it wanted to pay. Stevie’s seen him stare club presidents and players’ agents into a state of alert uneasiness from the first unflinching _“I’m an alcoholic. I don’t drink…”_ in response to their enticements of expensive whiskey even though Xabi's rules about it are quite flexible. By the end of the affair, it’s always the other clubs’ execs who feel the need for rehab.

Stevie sets his half-full glass on the bar and fiddles with a cufflink when he feels a warm gust of champagne breath on his cheek. It smells like the real thing.

“You’re distracting me while I’m busy trying to conduct business for the club.”

Stevie raises a skeptical eyebrow.

“Oh, is that what you’re doing?” he turns on his stool and leans against the bar, opening his legs just an inch more than it’s actually necessary to make room for Xabi invading his personal space. “I thought you were busy getting fake drunk with FIFA’s board of directors and looking like a mafia boss.”

Xabi leans over and murmurs against the shell of Stevie’s ear:

“Should we go powder our noses?...”

Stevie’s very close to doing the right thing, he is. He even has this whole speech on the tip of his tongue about how this isn’t some night club in Hong Kong and it hasn’t been 2007 in more than a decade and there’s a bit too much grey in his stubble to go sneaking into the loo for a quickie. It’s just that Xabi’s beard is brushing against Stevie’s ear as softly as Xabi’s thumb skims against his bent knee… Stevie doesn’t even bother to perform the customary check on next-door stalls when he’s shoved inside and thrown against the closing door. He’s too busy sucking on Xabi’s tongue and grinding his hips into his Director of Football.

He does wonder (very briefly) how he’ll be able to keep from adding this to his _“the job has its perks”_ answer to every journalist who insists on asking about the weight he must carry on his shoulders as manager of Liverpool Football Club. _Sure, the pressure is unbearable sometimes…_ Xabi pushes back against his erection making Stevie grunt so loud they can probably hear him all the way from the ladies’ room and yes, this is one of those times.

Xabi trails his mouth down Stevie’s jaw, inhaling the Vetiver off the heated skin of his pulse point and his hands start to sneak into his tux jacket, pulling at it from all directions.

“Do you know what you do to me when you bite your lips like that, hmm?” he nips at Stevie’s collarbone, catching his unraveled bow tie between his index and middle finger and sliding it off Stevie's shirt. Of course you know…”

The jacket is finally off, cast aside on the (spotless, this is Zürich after all) bathroom floor and Stevie makes the first of his two gravely mistaken assumptions of the night, thinking that maybe Xabi just wants to smell him better or something… _oh, fuck_ …

Xabi’s on one knee quicker than Stevie can even form conscious thoughts at the moment and it all happens so fast, Stevie sees his hand pushed away from Xabi’s hair and pinned to the bathroom door in a blur.

“What…”

His throat goes dry and his dick gets even harder when he feels Xabi’s mouth dragging along the crisp fabric of his trousers, tracing the contour of Stevie’s erection just as Xabi’s hands are multitasking at tying up Stevie’s wrists behind his back with the silk of his erstwhile bow tie.

“… _aaaahhh_ … re you doing???” Stevie croaks, the corded muscles in his upper arms struggling in vain to fight against the knot.

He’s trapped in a bathroom stall with a man with dilated pupils and a hot wet mouth, which in itself is not the problem here. The problem is that Xabi picks up Stevie’s jacket on his way back up and drapes it around his shoulders with a certain amount of chivalry, taking advantage of Stevie’s bewilderment to do up the stud in Stevie’s shirt that exposed his upper chest.

“FIFA have their awards, I have mine,” Xabi says with a minute smirk as he pushes the bathroom stall door open. “Not here though. We’ll take a little walk…”

“Xabi, this isn’t funny…”

“Am I laughing?”

 

Stevie feels the onslaught of adrenaline swarming in his blood stream as soon as they step back into the corridor separating the bathroom from the main reception hall. There are small clusters of well-dressed, half-drunk punters here and there, but none seem to notice the state he’s in, face flushed and dick straining against the trousers that fit Stevie just fine ten minutes ago. He thinks, with his luck, Mourinho is just around the corner, ready to spring on him and politely extend his hand in congratulations. Something far less terrifying awaits around the corner, or so it seems when Xabi calls the lift, standing behind Stevie in a tenuous attempt to cover up his bound hands sticking out from under his jacket.

“Is this payback for _Gieves & Hawkes_?” Stevie asks, torn between the instinct to struggle against the silk entrapment and the more conscious need to attract as little attention as possible.

That Time I Fucked Xabi in a Changing Room on Saville Row While Liverpool Was Getting Fitted for Our £4000 Official Champions League Final Suits and He Had to Bite My Shoulder So Hard He Drew Blood is another chapter of _Perks of Being a Liverpool Manager_ , Stevie’s third autobiography he plans to release when he’s 94 and can use dementia as a cover.

“No…,” Xabi whispers, eying Stevie’s hair that’s oh so peppy and perfect tonight, “it’s what you get for being such a cocktease.”

The metallic ping is only a temporary relief because their privacy in the chrome cage of the lift lasts for all of two floors before an elderly couple dressed to the nines steps in and Stevie wants to melt into the floor and disappear when the white-haired lady greets him with a smile that reminds him of his Nana (not that his Nan ever wore diamonds). He stumbles backwards into Xabi trying to make room even though the lift can comfortably fit eight people and can only breathe again once their new companions turn towards the door. His heart rumbles so violently against his rib cage, he’s certain grandpa can hear it despite what the hearing aid in his ear might suggest.

He’s going to fucking kill Xabi. He’ll let him do whatever he’s planning to do to him first. But then he’s going to kill him. Unsurprisingly, Xabi doesn’t seem unaware of Stevie’s murderous intent. He slips a hand under Steven’s jacket and it’s impossible to tell if the gentle squeeze he gives Stevie’s captive wrists is to steady him or to check the knot’s sturdiness, but it still grounds Stevie, helps him blink away the blind panic.

Until he feels Xabi’s tongue flat against the nape of his neck tasting a runaway droplet of sweat.

 

 

To Be Continued (because Anaile20GH is so awesome, I’m extending her birthday to 48 hrs ;))


	2. Chapter 2

"Is... Is this Carra's room?" Stevie struggles with keeping the hopeful note out of his grit-textured question.

Xabi closes the door behind them, guides Stevie inside with the same impeccable courtesy with which he'd escorted him out of the lift and through the hotel hallway.

"I did not have time to pick his pockets for his key card," he says, hooking his fingers inside the tailored shoulders of Stevie's tux jacket to cast it to the floor once more. "You took me by surprise with your little slutty number. Next time. I promise."

His right hand moves to Stevie's shirt, his eyes following each stud as it pops open under the feather-light pressure of his fingers. A slight push of his hips is all it takes to place Stevie where he wants him, leaning against the minimalist desk drawer on which Xabi's tablet and his stack of magazines he'd bought at the airport lay in a neat pile. It's not the most comfortable position for Stevie, but at least he gets to stretch his bound hands around the wooden edge of the desk. Besides, experience has taught Xabi that once he starts kneeling between his legs, at his trademark molasses pace and letting his beard rasp against the exposed skin of Stevie's stomach on the way down, there's very little Captain Fantastic won't put up with comfort-wise.

"We still have to hurry," Xabi licks the words one by one into the warm skin under Stevie's navel while his fingers work with practiced ease at getting what he wants through layers of frustrating clothing. "Carra will start to wonder why you abandoned your FIFA award on the table. He will be knocking on my door any second now..."

His palm cupped around Stevie's balls can instantly feel the effect of his murmurs into his skin.

"Got me where you wanted me... how about you let me get my fingers in your hair?" Stevie proposes with all the reasonableness in the world, despite his shaky breath.

"Patience," Xabi breathes over his exposed cock careful not to let his lips touch it yet. "I have to enjoy this while I can. With this type of fabric, the red marks around your wrist will start to turn blue in about ten minutes. Any more and they are going to be a beautiful purple tomorrow," he adds methodically then takes Stevie in all the way, humming when he feels him hit the back of his throat.

It takes a second for Stevie's brain to process images again, his blown up pupils temporarily blinded by the heat of Xabi's tongue moving in quick, greedy swirls around the underside. When he does recover enough, his eyes are locked onto Xabi's who's daring him to watch every wet move of his very pink mouth against his straining flesh. He tries hard not to think about having to explain to the Scotland Yard why his Director of Football has such intimate knowledge of types of ligatures and the effect of various kinds of knots on unsuspecting skin, and hopes Xabi has the good sense to clear his internet search history. 

"Xabi..."

"Bruising would be... inconvenient," Xabi pulls his head back just a fraction of an inch and Stevie's hips lift off the desk to follow, "I have you booked for a four-page spread in The Sunday Times as soon as we land back in England tomorrow."

"Wh... What?" Stevie sputters, the burn around his wrists an insufficient deterrent from trying desperately to make as much contact with Xabi's mouth as possible.

"I want the whole country to get on all fours in front of you, ready to suck your dick as The Savior of English Football. While singing the Gerrard Song."

"Very generous of you to share..."

"I didn't say I'd _let_ them. I just want them to beg for it."

With that, Xabi goes back to tasting the sharpness of the pre-come gathered at the tip and eventually to making low slurping sounds that make Stevie's lungs feel like they might collapse inside his ribcage any minute.

"Xabs... Untie me..." Stevie stops just short of uttering the magic word, quick to reach out for a new strategy with a tactical flexibility that's made the footballing world take notice of Steven Gerrard, Manager of the Year. "Untie me right now and I'll fuck you so hard... fucking tear you apart," he gasps when he feels Xabi's teeth raking down the throbbing vein along his lenght. "Just the way you like it..."

He can tell Xabi's tempted, but after he gives his cock a soft kiss and raises to his feet, he doesn't seem very interested in setting Stevie free. He's momentarily distracted by Xabi's tongue pushing into his mouth for a hard, salty kiss, but knows his ploy has failed when Xabi's hand replaces his lips on him and his teeth graze Stevie's jaw.

"I wish I could keep you like this forever," Xabi growls against the corner of his mouth, his fingers curling harder on the upstroke. "You know that meeting with the South East Asian sponsors I have next Wednesday?"

"Uhhhh..." is all Stevie has to say by way of assent because he can barely remember how to English. Nonetheless, the part of his brain that's not responsible for forming words while receiving a mindblowing handjob would like to tell Xabi that factoid is impossible to forget after Xabi'd flown in a private tutor to Melwood so he could perfect his Business Thai or decipher their sponsor's secret chit chat behind the translator's back; Stevie wouldn't put either past him. 

"I will be thinking of doing this to you the whole time I have to sit there and pretend to be interested in their brand positioning strategy," Xabi says, his breath hot and hurried against Stevie's ear, "You will be just around the corner, sweating through anaerobic drills and yelling Scouse curses at Rossiter for showing off instead of passing to his less talented mates..."

Stevie's grip hardens against the edge of the desk that's now rocking gently against the wall under Xabi's fastened strokes.

"Maybe I'll pop in," Stevie says, "During your coffee break..."

Xabi's tiny head jerk and the tremble of his eyelashes is so satisfying Stevie wishes he had the energy to laugh.

"You'll be all flushed," Xabi continues, his composure regained and his hand as determined as ever, "Your hair will be all sweaty and the _smell_ of you..." he bows his head and buries his nose into the damp curve of Stevie's neck, pausing for a deep inhale. "...It might drive me to do something crazy... like... push you into my big leather desk chair... and tie you up to it."

Xabi lifts his forehead and rests it against Stevie's. 

"Then I'll go back to the conference room and leave you there with a painful hardon and no way to touch yourself..." Stevie can feel the rub of Xabi's erection against his leaning thigh, moving in time with his fingers sliding even faster up and down his cock. Xabi's words fall in gusts of hot breath on Stevie's parted lips. "We'll be lucky if I don't sell Anfield for the change baht in their pockets... Because all I'll be able to focus on will be counting the minutes... wondering if I made you mad enough yet to throw me over my desk and fuck me until I scream," Xabi whispers, twisting his wrist one last, hard time around the base of Stevie's dick and letting his eyelashes close against Stevie's cheek when he feels him spasm and spill over his fingers with a guttural grunt.

Stevie's legs hang like lead anchors against the desk, the upper half of his body slumped against Xabi and his breath trying desperately to catch up with his erratic pulse. The first sound he manages to make is a dry chuckle on the tip of Xabi's earlobe.

"What?" Xabi asks, his wet palm still wrapped around Stevie. "What are you thinking?"

He lays a weightless kiss on Stevie's damp temple and Stevie laughs at his own inability to explain the torrent of mental images tumbling through his brain. Most of them are related to the media love fest unleashed on Liverpool after the Champions League final and the Four Four Two photo shoot in which Xabi's leaning over the victorious manager's throne in his office looking like the Celtic cousin of the Corleones.

Stevie finally lifts his head and says:

"Adrian Chiles."

"Just the words a man in my position wants to hear."

"Was just thinking how he fucking loves calling you _Gerrard's Brain_..."

Xabi dips his head to shut Stevie up and their kiss is threaded with laughter and their need to mold their bodies closer than their current position allows. He zips up Stevie's trousers as methodically as he'd unzipped them and rubs against Stevie's thigh when he wraps his arms around Stevie's slumped, half numb elbows. 

"Why don't you untie me so I can take care of that before Carra comes banging on the door?" Stevie asks, shifting his thigh to rub between Xabi's legs. The burn in his wrists returns with a vengeance along with relative fluency in his native tongue and Xabi's thumb wheedling its way under the silk to feel his chaffed skin is not helping. 

"I really should..." Xabi concedes, pulling Stevie off the desk by his bound arms and leading him to one, two, three steps before he lays his hands on Stevie's shoulders and pushes him onto the bed where he bounces lightly on the mattress.

The sound of Xabi's zipper spreads through Stevie's brain like a livewire and the tip of his tongue follows Xabi's thumb dragging along his lower lip as Xabi says:

"...but I'm not done with you yet!"

 

The End


End file.
